She alone he could trust.
“Anha, be of truth to me.” He reached up and touched her face—and immediately retracted his hand. “You are cold!”
“I am not.” She batted him away, putting her brush down and getting to her feet. “I am dressed in this red velvet you prefer. How can I possibly be cold?”
For a moment, he nearly forgot his concerns. She was such a vision in the deep, rich color, the gold thread upon her bodice catching the firelight just as all her rubies did: Indeed, she was wearing the full set of jewelry tonight, the stones glinting at her ears, her neck, her wrists, her hands.
And yet, as resplendent as she was, something was not proper.
“Do rise, my hellren,” she commanded. “And let us proceed down unto the festivities. All and sundry are awaiting you.”
“They may tarry longer.” He had no intention of budging. “Anha, speak unto me. What is wrong?”
“You worry over much.”
“Have you bled?” he asked tightly. Which would mean that a young was not within her.
She put a slender hand over her belly. “No. And I feel … perfectly well. Honestly.”
Wrath narrowed his eyes. There was, of course, another issue that could be upon her heart. “Has anyone been cruel?”
“Never.”
In that, she was lying for certain. “Anha, do you think there is aught that escapes my knowledge? I am well aware of what transpires about court.”
“Do not concern yourself with those half-wits. I do not.”
He loved her for her resilience. But her bravery was unnecessary—if only he could find out who was tormenting her, he would take care of it. “I believe I should readdress the gossips.”
“You say nothing, my love. What’s done is done—you cannot undo the presentation. Trying to silence any and all criticism or comment upon me would lead to an empty court.”
It had all started that night when she had been brought to him. He had not followed proper protocol, and in spite of the fact that the King’s wishes ruled o’er the land and all its vampires, there were those who disapproved of so much: That he had not undressed her. That he had given her the ruby suite of gems and the queen’s ring—and then conducted the mating himself. That he had immediately moved her in here, to his private quarters.
His critics had not been appeased in the slightest when he had consented to a public ceremony. Nor had they, even a year later, warmed to his mate. They were never rude to her in his presence, of course—and Anha refused to say a word about what happened behind his back.
But the scent of her anxiety and depression were too well known to him.
In truth, the court’s treatment of his beloved angered him to the point of violence—and created a rift between him and all who surrounded him. He felt as though he could trust no one. Even the Brotherhood, who were supposed to be his private guard and those whom he should have faith in above all others, even those males he was suspicious of.
Anha was all he had.
Leaning down to him, her hands cradled his face. “Wrath, my love.” She pressed her lips to his. “Let us proceed unto the festival.”
He gripped her forearms. Her eyes were pools to drown in, and the only terror he knew in this mortal coil was that someday they might not be there for him to stare into.
“Halt your thinking,” his shellan beseeched. “There is naught that will happen to me now or ever.”
Drawing her against him, he turned his head and laid it against her womb. As her hands threaded through his hair, he studied her table. Brushes, combs, squat bowls of chromatics for her lips and her eyes, a cup of tea beside its pot, a wedge of bread that had been nibbled upon.
Such prosaic things, but because she had gathered them, touched them, consumed them, they were elevated to the heights of value: She was the alchemy that turned it all, and him, to gold.
“Wrath, we must needs go.”
“I do not wish to. This is where I wish to be.”
“But your court awaits.”
He said something vile that he hoped became caught in the folds of velvet. Given her soft laughter, he ventured it had not.
She was correct, however. There were many gathered for his attendance.
Damn them all.
Rising to his feet, he proffered his arm unto her, and as she looped hers through the crook of his elbow, he led them out of their chamber and past the palace guards who lined the hall. Some distance thereafter, they descended a curving stairwell, the sounds of the gathered aristocracy growing ever louder.
As they closed in upon the great hall, she leaned on him more, and he puffed out his chest, his body growing in stature as a result of her reliance upon him. Unlike so many courtesans, who were eager to be dependent, his Anha had always retained a certain prideful decorum within herself—so when, on occasion, she did require his strength in some way, it was a special gift to his most masculine side.